


Worth more than any microwave

by LoLecter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Parentlock, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 00:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoLecter/pseuds/LoLecter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock son, Oliver, fifteen years old, get abducted and raped. Before they have even found him Oliver has decided he will not tell anyone what happened to him. However, after being saved and returning home he realizes going back to normal and hiding his nightmares, constant fear and pain is not as easy as he had thought. Most of all when his parents keep worrying about him everytime something happen. It's not like they have any reason to worry. After all he just broke a mirror during a panic attack, panic if adult men try to touch him, can not sleep and avoid them constantly. Really he doesn't see why they are worrying so much and can't just leave him alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth more than any microwave

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously the way Oliver deal with what happened to him(keeping it a secret, self harming) is not a good way to deal with rape, but he is fifteen and having a difficult time.  
> The first part is mostly from Oliver point of view and then it changes to Mycroft and finally John.

He was at home when it happened. His parents had both left for the country for a case three hours ago, leaving him to return home from school to an empty flat. Being fifteen it was something he was pretty happy about. He loved his dads, but he loved to spend some time alone, being able to sleep (or not sleep to be more accurate) when he wanted and more importantly make any experiment he wanted as long as it didn’t destroy the house or any furniture. He was in the kitchen drinking some milk directly from the box when he sensed the presence of someone.

Before he had any time to react there was a hand on his mouth and someone injected his neck with what he assumed was a sedative. He tried to resist the man holding him, but very soon everything had gone dark and his limbs had stopped to obey him. When he woke up he was in a little room with only a camp bed and a bucket in one corner. It was the beginning of hell.

***

He didn’t know how long it was before they finally found him, but they did. He was sat on the floor, his knees in his arms, looking more like a terrified wild animal than a teenage boy when his parents opened the door, accompanied by multiple cops. John almost screamed his name in relief while Sherlock fought the tears menacing to come out of his eyes.  
“Oliver!”  
Not seeing his son react immediately stopped the man from running toward him to take him in his arms. Oliver raised his head a little unsure if he was dreaming or not. He had imagined this moment a lot in the last days, but for some reason he had always felt more relived in his imagination. His fathers were approaching him slowly like he might jump at any moment and try to bite them. In a little voice he asked:  
“Dads?”  
His voice was rough from trying to keep his emotions in check, but his older father answered in the most reassuring way possible:  
“Yes Oliver. It’s us. We’re here. You’re safe now. It’s ok. Everything is ok.”

The relief finally washed over him, a sob breaking out of his throat.  
“Papa! Daddy!”  
A second later John was by his side holding him in his arms while he cried and cried. He tried to hold him too, but he just couldn’t. He didn’t feel like he had the right. He was very skinny for his age, but he was still surprised when his father got him off the floor and carried him in his arm out of the room. He could have walked, but he had to admit he preferred this.

Sherlock helped him and kissed his forehead whispering how sorry he was. Why was he sorry? He had found him. If someone had to be sorry it would be him.

 

It was sunny outside and it made his eyes hurt. He had not seen a lot of light recently. He was sat on an ambulance stretcher, but he stayed in his foetal position. They told him he had been gone for five days. He had a hard time assimilating the information since for him it had felt more like a month. The men responsible were all dead except one who was only wounded, but would spend the rest of his life in prison. He didn’t feel less afraid, even knowing that.

John talked a lot, not letting go of him, while Sherlock only touched him every couple of seconds or so like he was making sure he was still there. He didn’t say anything at first. He just focused on stopping the tears and thinking about what he had to do. He had promised himself that he would not let his parents learn what had happened to him, but to make that possible he would have to be strong and in control. He could do that. He had to do that.

If someone had asked him what John had been saying for the last minutes he would not have been able to repeat it. After the third “You’re ok now. You’re ok” he had stopped listening. He was not ok. He would never be ok again. It was nonsense. However, he had to get out of his head, pay attention and answer some questions if he wanted to avoid being sent to the hospital.

A lady brought him a blanket and a water bottle asking him if he was thirsty.  
“Yes, thank you.”  
He took it, his hand still shaking a little while his father put the blanket over his shoulder.  
“How are you feeling? Do you hurt anywhere?”  
Yes, everywhere.  
“No, not really. I’m just tired that’s all.”  
His dad, Sherlock, observant as ever stated in a worried voice:  
“They are bruises on your wrists. Did they hurt you?”

Sherlock was good at knowing if people were telling the truth, but he had always had a blind spot for his son and Oliver intended to use it the best he could.  
“It’s just from the ropes they used to tie me when they took me I think. They were there when I woke up in the room.”

It didn’t make a lot of sense to tie him up since he had been unconscious, but he hoped his dad would just buy it and not question him. His father being a bit slow just noticed what he was wearing.  
“What happened to your clothes?”  
“They searched me when I arrived. To make sure I didn’t have anything on me and then they gave me these. “  
Again, not true, but he was not about to tell both his dad in a street surrounded by cops that his pants and shirt had been ripped apart by a monster just to humiliate him.

A medical attendant came to him and asked him if he could examine him. His body immediately tensed at the idea of being touched by anyone other than his dads.  
“You don’t need to. I’m fine.”  
“We just want to make sure...”  
“I said I’M FINE.” He screamed retrieving back a bit more in his father arms. John who seemed to sense his son fear at being touched by a stranger tightened his embrace.  
“My husband is a doctor. He will examine our son himself at the hospital. Thank you.”  
Sherlock tone and look left no room to argue.

Oliver could hide a lot of things and lie about what had happened, but he could not stop the fear he felt from showing and this fear made his parents even more protective than they usually were.

“I don’t want to go to the hospital” he whispered to his father.  
“I would feel better if you did. I will be the one examining you if that’s what you’re worried about.”  
“You can examine me at home too. I just want to go back home. Please.”  
He didn’t even have to fake the tears that came to his eyes. His dad sensing his distress and unable to resist him said to his husband:  
“He is right John. You can examine him at home.”  
John sighed.  
“Ok, but I _will_ examine you at home.”  
“Thank you papa!”

A cop gave them a lift home and let the three of them sit together in the back. While he was happy to have his parents back and he knew he could trust them he had to admit he was starting to feel uncomfortable from all the touching. At the same time he knew that if he told them that they would wonder why and ask question he would rather not answer so he tolerated it.

Once they were at home he asked for a shower before his father even had time to ask to examine him. He had had one shower during his time away. He didn’t know when exactly, but at some point they had come to drag him into a bathroom, sat him on the floor of a cold shower and told him to wash himself. He still felt disgusting.

John understood and told him to call if he needed any help. He chose some big, comfortable clothes with long sleeves from his room and went to the bathroom. He started shaking again a little bit when taking out the clothes he had been given. Seeing the bruises on his body reminded him of how he had got them. Something he really didn’t want to think about at the moment. Or ever for that matter.  The first thing he did once the shower was open was throw the clothes under the water.

He didn’t think his dad would have examined them, but just in case he did and he was able to realize what had happened to him from a hair or trace he washed them. His entire body was sore and every move he made he could feel the pain inside him. It was a miracle his fathers had not noticed it yet. He had bruises on this wrists and ankles from being tied to the bed. Others he could not see, but feel on his back and some on his chest. There was also one on his hips and two on his thigh. He didn’t really mind them that much. What angered him and made want to take his skin apart was the pain he felt in his back hole.

He was pretty sure the man had ripped something at some point. If the blood had not been evidence enough the fact that it still hurt would have told him that. It was probably normal to feel some pain after being penetrated by force multiple times. It would go away soon enough, he told himself, but it didn’t really help. He washed himself until his skin was red from too much scrapping and his father knocked on the door to ask if he was alright.

Realizing it was a lost cause he got out of the shower and got dressed. No matter how much he washed himself he would still feel disgusting. He would still _be_ disgusting. It would not erase what had been done to him. Nothing could.

Putting on his best “Not ok, but still not too much not ok” face he went to face his fathers. Sherlock was sitting on his chair looked tortured. He felt guilty. That much was obvious. John, him, was sitting on the sofa with some tea, waiting for him.

He went to sit on the sofa as far away from John as possible. It took all he had to not wince from the pain when he sat.

“Are you alright?”  
“As good as can be considering.”  
“You don’t seem to have anything broken or sprained.”  
“No. I told you I’m fine.”  
That seemed to get Sherlock out of his head and into the conversation.  
“You walk like your entire body hurt. I don’t think there is anything broken, but please Oliver, don’t lie to us. You are not fine.”  
That got him an angry look from his husband. So John had noticed too it seemed. He had just wanted to bring the subject more delicately. Well then, he would just have to lie a bit more. Good thing he had thought of some excuses for the bruises in his shower.

“What Sherlock is trying to say is that you don’t have to lie to us. We can take it. We just want to help you.”  
“It’s nothing really. Just some bruises on my chest and by back. You can’t do anything about them.”  
John face went white and his Sherlock looked like someone had just opened his chest. He was in pure agony. That was exactly why he could not tell them. If they reacted that way to such a small thing, learning the truth would kill them. And that was if they were not disgusted by him.

“How did it happen?” John almost murmured trying to not let his emotions show.  
“I tried to escape at the beginning. I fought a bit with them and they hit me.”  
In his doctor voice or what was him trying to use his doctor voice anyway, John said: “Show me. Please.”

Oliver lifted his shirt up showing the bruises on his chest and back. His father touched delicately every one of them and at some point pushed on his ribs asking him how much it hurt. He told the truth. They were not broken or sprained. He was pretty sure of that. He was relieved when he could let his shirt down.

“How much did you eat in the last days?”  
“Hum.... I don’t know. Two meals a day I think. Oatmeal mostly.”  
He didn’t say that he had thrown up half of them after the second day and had stopped eating completely by the fourth.  
“Well you are going to eat something now. Is there something particular you want?”  
The thought of eating made his stomach knot himself.  
“I’m not very hungry.”  
Getting up and walking to the kitchen John responded:  
“I didn’t ask if you were hungry. You are eating. I just want to know if you have any preference.”  
“I don’t mind. Whatever you want.”  
“Sherlock you are eating too, by the way. You have barely eaten in five days.”

That didn’t surprise him. Sherlock grunted something, but didn’t contradict him. He gave his son a look that said “Your father and his ridiculous obsession with eating...” and Oliver smiled a little for the first time in five days.

After eating the teenager announced he was tired and he wanted to go sleep a little.  
“I didn’t sleep much in the last days.” He explained and they didn’t insist. Going up in his room he felt two pairs of eyes follow him.

He closed his door and let himself fall on his bed. He was indeed tired, but he really didn’t plan on sleeping. He didn’t think he would be able to even if he tried. He was too afraid to fall asleep and wake up in the dark room once again. Too afraid this rescuing and coming back home had all been a dream.

A wave of panic came to him when he realized he was lying on his back and he quickly put himself in a fetal position, his back to the wall. A flashback of him lying on his back, his hand tied under his head and his leg tied to the side of a bed came to him. He saw the man between his legs, forcing himself into him and he heard his desperate scream as he tried to resist. He felt the punch to his chest again and remembered how it had made him feel out of breath for a moment. The violent burn as his rapist kept pounding with force again and again...

The meal he had hoped to keep down suddenly went up and he barely had time to catch the little trash cane by his desk before he was throwing up.

***

If Oliver ever had the illusion that things would get better once he was back at home he would have been disappointed. Thankfully he had not harbored such disillusions and things had just been as he had suspected they would be.  The first days he had felt constantly watched, his fathers never leaving him alone for too long and always looking at him like he was some sort of fragile thing that could break at any moments.

Mycroft had come by to visit and for once he had not been happy to see him. He loved his uncle very much contrary to his dad, but he was even more observant than Sherlock and he was terrified the man would take one look at him and know what had happened. He did not do that to his relief. He instead looked at him with the same worried look his fathers gave him.

They could all sense that he was not fine, but they had no idea what to do about it. John was very reluctant to let him go back to school as soon as he wanted, but when he begged explaining that he could not stand to stay at home and do nothing another day he bent. School was not far from home. Barely two subways stations away. However, to his great shame his heart still beat alarmingly fast all the way and he probably looked like a mental case to anyone seeing him on the street.

He constantly looked behind his back, analysed everyone around him or violently jerked away every time someone got too close to him. At school people knew of his abduction, but nobody broached the subject with him. His teacher only looked happy to have him back (he was a good student) and repeated to him over and over how he didn’t have to do all the work he had missed. Oliver still insisted to do it. Every homework, readings, class work he had missed.

It gave him the opportunity to focus on something else and keep busy for a little while. He didn’t have a lot of friends at school. Partly because he was considered a nerd and his favorite subjects to talk about were science and murder investigation and partly because he considered almost everyone too stupid or close minded to want to befriend them. He had Malia with whom he spent most of his time and whom a lot of people thought he dated. She actually had a girlfriend out of school. He also talked to Tommy a boy a year younger than him who was obsessed with chess and idolized his dad. The boy was constantly bullied before Oliver had started to talk to him, and incidentally started kicking the ass of some of his bullies.

When going back to school he had not really been looking forward to seeing them. He was not in the mood for talking or being sociable. Malia looked at him with such a worried look that he soon found excuses to avoid her and spent all his time hidden in the janitor closet or the library when he felt a bit better.

Since his first night back when he had had nightmares after nightmares making him relive his captivity he had not slept a lot. He did everything to avoid falling asleep and always made sure that when he did he would wake up before his sleep cycle was at the stage where he could remember dreams.  That meant he slept only two hours at the time and regretted bitterly the time it ended up longer. His eating habit was not really better either since he was always afraid he would throw up or felt too anxious to be hungry.

All those things made him look more and more like a walking corpse and he could he see that his fathers were worried. They tried talking to him about him seeming very tired and how nightmares were normal after what had happened. He didn’t say anything in return only repeating that he was fine for the hundredth times. He did everything to avoid them, hoping that the less time he spent with them the less chance they would have to notice how much of a mess he was.

He even pushed his dad to take a new case. He had been refusing them since his return not wanting to leave his son alone, but he soon realized that it was not what Oliver wanted. So after two weeks at home he finally gave in and went back to his work. That meant that when coming home from school this afternoon the boy would be alone. At first he had been happy. Finally, he would not have to hide in his room to be on his own, but he realized his mistakes when arriving and finding the flat empty for the first time since he had been abducted.

Looking around and hearing the silence made his heart start to beat faster. What if it happened again? After all he had been alone the last time and he could not defend himself very well. The experience had proved that. He had to calm himself. Nothing would happen. He was safe. The men were dead and the chance of being kidnapped again so soon after were almost non-existent.

Still he could not help almost running to his room and closing his door immediately. He got his homework out, his hands shaking, with the intention of trying to focus on them, but he could not even read the first sentence of the book he had opened on his desk. He was too panicked. It was a lost cause. There was a window in his room which he normally appreciated, but at the moment made him even more terrified. He knew logically that even if someone was to try and kidnap him again they would surely not use his window, being on the third floor, but that didn’t calm him in the least. 

He was past being rational at this point. He needed a closed space. Small, but not dark if possible. He didn’t like being in the dark very much now. That left only one option: the bathroom. He didn’t know what he was going to do once he was there, but he knew that he needed to go hide there if he wanted to feel better somehow. He knew that he was very close to having a panic attack and he hated the idea of being so pathetic he could not even be left alone for a couple of hours without freaking out.

Once in the bathroom with the door locked he sat on the floor, hugging his knees and tried to take deep breath. It would be ok. Everything would be ok. He was safe. A vivid flash of being tied naked to a bed and the sound of a belt being open made him want to scream. He was used to having flashback, but it was not the moment. He was already panicked enough. Like often if you tried not to think of something really hard he ended up thinking exactly about it. The first time the man had taken him while he was lying on his stomach on the bed, struggling. The horrible pain. The fear. The disgust. The despair in the end. Mentally begging his father to come and save him.

His eyes started to burn, tears wanting to come out. He felt like crying in addition to being panicked now. Great. Just what he needed. While remembering he had forgotten to keep his breathing in check so he ended up hyperventilating. He could not breathe anymore and everything in his brain got confused. The fear that he felt at the moment and the fear that he had felt while being raped mixed together making him start to sob like a little child.

He wanted to scream and he did, not able to keep it in any longer. He tried to muffle the sound by biting his forearm, but it probably didn’t work very well. He had to do something. Anything. He kept remembering horror after horror and all he could think was “It can’t happen again”. He got up and felt dizzy. His entire body felt like it was on fire.

He saw himself in the mirror. His face wet, the big shadow under his eyes and his terrified look. His hate for himself made him want to punch something. The man had been right. He was not at all like his fathers. He was weak. He was pathetic. Without knowing how exactly it happened he found himself punching the mirror with all his strength. Once. Twice. Three times.

He screamed at the pain, but he didn’t try to keep it down this time. The mirror fell down on the sink in big pieces. One fell on his arm and made a big cut before crashing. A last sob escaped his throat and he suddenly felt his heart and breathing starting to calm down. He took one of the biggest broken pieces in his hand thinking he could use it as a weapon if someone tried to take or hurt him.

He realized it was paranoia by then, but it didn’t stop him from holding it tight while he sat on the floor again. He felt it cut the inside of his palm, but he didn’t drop it. He didn’t mind the pain. It made him feel safer. It was all that mattered. His joints were bleeding a bit too and he looked at them with fascination while his heart finished going back to normal. He felt numb. His head was blank. He was only focused on the pain inside his palm, on his hand and all the blood flowing from the accidental cut on his arm.

It fell on his jeans and on the floor and he had the vague thought that he should wash it before his fathers came home, but he didn’t move. The sound of someone opening the door of the flat woke him up from his haze and he rapidly crawled to the corner of the room making himself as small as possible while still holding his piece of mirror up like a weapon.

“Oliver! We’re home! Are you there?”  
John was calling him. It was his parent. Of course. Even knowing it was them he didn’t have the strength to move or say anything. He heard them searching for him in his room before Sherlock came and knocked on the toilet door.  
“Oliver? Are you alright?”   
He didn’t answer. He was covered in blood just like the floor and he had broken the mirror. He was in so much trouble. They would wonder what had happened. How could he explain that?

While he tried to determine what he should do John had joined Sherlock at the door and sounded worried.

“Oli? Are you there? Can you answer me?”  
He tried to say something, but all that came out was “I.... I....”  
They heard it, but it didn’t reassure them very much.  
“Can you open the door for us?”  
He didn’t answer. He felt frozen in place. He heard his dad say something, go in their room and come back a moment later. Then the sound of picking a lock with some kind of instrument.  
“We are coming in.”

Suddenly the door opened and two pairs of eyes stared at him. John did his best to hide his fear and shock.  
“What happened Oli?”  
He was using his soothing voice. The one he probably used with the kids he saw at the clinic.

“I... I panicked. I’m sorry.”  
It was all he could say. Lying at this point would be useless and he could not pretend he was fine after what he had done. Tears started to slip from his eyes again.  
Sitting on his heals John touched his bleeding hand.  
“It’s ok. We’re not angry. You’re safe now. You can let it go.”  
Oh! The piece of mirror. He had forgotten he still had it. He opened his hand and let his father take it. There was a big cut in the inside of his hand. It started bleeding the moment he opened it.  
His dad, Sherlock, was immediately there with a little towel that he rolled around his hand.

“Sherlock go take my emergency kit in the kitchen and bring it in the living room.”

He went immediately while John looked at him full of concern.  
“Can you walk?”  
The teenage boy nodded and shakily got up. Keeping a hand on his back John guided him to the sofa. Sherlock often went and got himself injured in his work so the doctor had all he needed to make suture points at home. It was a really good thing since Oliver really didn't feel like going to the hospital for four suture points.

Sherlock put the bag on the little table and went to sit at the edge of his chair.  
“I’m going to examine your cuts, alright?”he stated before touching Oliver.  
He nodded a little and let John look at the cut on his arm and then his hand. He cleaned all the wounds and then injected him with some anaesthetic before starting the suture point on the inside of his palm. He didn’t say any word to him and the boy was grateful for it.

He still didn’t know what he was going to say and his mind felt too foggy for him to think properly. As strange as it was he felt better than he had felt in weeks. All the pain, the guilt, the shame, the fear. It was all gone. The only thing on his mind was the physical pain. It was relaxing. Of course it couldn’t last and it ended the second his dad still sitting on his chair observing the scene opened his mouth.  
“Being alone in the flat for the first time since the kidnapping gave you a panic attack. Is that it?”  
To be fair he had waited until John had just finished the suture point and he was totally right. That didn’t mean that he liked to hear out loud how weak and stupid he had been. He looked away a moment before nodding slowly.  
“And the mirror?” his other father asked.

“I... I don’t know. I went in the bathroom to... I just felt safer there. And then... I couldn’t breathe and... I just had to do something. Anything. The next thing I knew I had broken the mirror and I was bleeding.”

John felt his heart sink in his chest at the thought of his son hurting so much and being so afraid.  
“Why didn’t you call us? We would have come home immediately.”  
Oliver looked at him like he was stupid.  
“I’m almost 16. I should be able to be home alone for a couple of hours without panicking.”

“You are totally right and that would not be an issue had you not been abducted in that same home barely three weeks ago and were you not suffering from PTSD.” Said his dad almost coldly trying to show his son how illogical he was being.  
“I’m not suffering from PTSD!” he protested.  
Sherlock looked at him with a face that said “Do you really think we are blind?”.  
“You barely sleep and when you do you have nightmares that leave you waking up crying. You are constantly in hyper vigilance and when you are not you do not seem aware of what is happening around you, which makes me suspect you are experiencing flashback. You do not practice any of your hobbies anymore. You avoid your father and I constantly and now you have a panic attack when left alone in the flat. You are smart Oliver. You know those are symptoms of post traumatic stress.”

As the speech went on Oliver realized that his dad had noticed a lot more than he had thought and he felt himself start to panic. What if they asked questions again? What if he suspected something?  
“Sherlock!”  
John looked angry, but his dad didn’t flinch.  
“What John? Do you want me to pretend like everything is fine when he obviously is not? I will not tolerate him saying he is fine anymore. We are not stupid, but we can’t help if he doesn’t talk to us.”

That made his father sigh.  
“He may not have said it very well, but what your dad meant is that we are worried about you and we know you are not fine. You don’t have to pretend otherwise. We want to help you. We are here for you Oliver. ”

What was he supposed to say to that?  
“I... The kidnapping just affected me more than I thought. That’s all. I will be fine again soon enough.”  
This time John started to look a bit frustrated too.  
“We found you locked in the bathroom holding a piece of mirror as a weapon and bleeding.  Bleeding which occurred because you had punched a mirror enough to break it. This is not nothing Oliver.”  
“It won’t happen again. I promise.”

John pinched his nose in frustration and tried not to sigh.  
“This is not about the mirror. Or you doing it again or not. It’s about you feeling so bad that something like this happened. It’s about you thinking that you have to deal with this on your own when it’s not the case. You can call or come to us anytime you feel like you felt before locking yourself in the bathroom.”

Oliver had to fight the urge to scream “But you can’t do anything! You can’t help me!” Even if he had called his father what could he have done? He would have still been afraid. He would have still felt horrible when he had those flashbacks. They could not do anything. Nobody could help him. Arguing however was the best way to end up in a conversation he didn’t want to have or risk saying things he didn’t want to say.

“Ok. I will call you if I have another panic attack when I’m alone at home. Can I go to my room now? I’m really tired and I really need to change.”  
He pointed his jeans full of blood. He just wanted to escape the room before any questions were asked. His answer didn’t really seem to satisfy John, but he didn’t insist.  
“Ok you can go, but come back in thirty minute when supper is ready.”  
Nodding, he almost ran into his room. Once he was there he took his trouser off and threw them on the floor before going to sit on his bed.

There was a bandage around his hand and another on the cut of his forearm. He removed the one on his arm and inspected the cut. It didn’t bleed anymore. It was not as deep as it had looked at first. He had not even needed stitches. It didn’t hurt a lot. Only burned a little. He clenched his fist and felt pain in his hand. The conversation with his father had been awkward and stressful, but he still felt pretty good considering barely twenty minutes ago he was having a panic attack on the floor of his bathroom.  
  
He didn’t know if it was the physical pain, seeing the blood or knowing that he had been the one responsible for his injuries, but he was more than ready to do it again to find out. He had seen a lot of teenagers on the internet that self harmed because of bullying or abuse. He had never thought about trying it before because he didn’t see how hurting himself would make him feel any better, but now he kind of got it and he could not wait to try it again properly. He would have to get razor blades or a small knife tomorrow.

Finally he had something that would make him feel a little better.  He knew it was only a temporary solution and not a very good coping mechanism, but what was he supposed to do? If it helped him deal with his emotions and made him able to start acting a bit more normally he could not not try it. Of course he would have to be careful with his dads so they didn’t find out about it, but it should not be too difficult to hide some part of his body and one or two instruments.

*** 

 

John felt like someone had punched him in the chest. His son was suffering from what looked like pretty serious post traumatic stress and refused to talk about it or ask them for any help. He was not fooled. He knew Oliver would not call him if he had another panic attack. He had only said that so he would leave him alone. He had not even acknowledged the rest of what he had said about being there for him or not having to pretend he was ok when he was obviously not.

He was pushing them away and John didn’t know what to do. Sherlock came to sit next to him on the sofa and placed an arm around him.  
“I’m worried about him too.”  
John leaned in his husband shoulder.  
“I don’t know what to do Sherlock. He doesn’t want to talk to us. We can’t help him if he doesn’t let us.”  
“He reminds me of someone I know.”  
John smiled a little.  
“I know I’m not the most talkative man either, but my PTSD was never as bad as his.”  
“You were suicidal John and I doubt that our son is.”  
“God, I hope he is not. But it’s not the same thing. He is younger. I didn’t have panic attack and I could actually sleep. I don’t think he has slept more than 8h hours this week.”  
“He has slept twelve hours since Monday, but I suspect that he didn’t plan on sleeping as much yesterday.”  
“How long?”  
“Five hours. I think it’s his record since he came back.”  
“God Sherlock!”

Sherlock tightened his embrace around his lover. They stayed silent for a moment before John asked him:  
“Was it true what you said about him waking up crying? Do you really hear him?”  
Sherlock voice was full of contained emotion when he answered:  
 “Yes.”  
“More things happened during those five days than he told us, did it? I mean if they had really just left him alone all the time he would not still be waking up crying.”  
“I suspect so. The bruises on his wrist when we found him were recent. They were not five days old. And the bruises on his chest and back did not all occur at the same time. Some were four days old and some barely one.”

John felt like he was going to cry and throw up at the same time. He hid his face against Sherlock chest.  
“Why did you not say anything? Or tell me sooner? Why did HE not say anything?”  
“I suspected he had his reasons for not telling us so I kept my observations for myself. I think he might not have wanted us to feel guilty about what happened, but I might be wrong. I am not very good at deducing emotions as you know. As for not telling you, I thought it was his place to do so, but I had assumed he would do so eventually. It appears I was wrong.”  
“What do you think they did to him?”  
They both had to fight really hard to not cry at this point.  
“I think they beat him more than once and he spent more time tied up than he told us, but why or what exactly they did I don’t know.”

The two men spent the next twenty minutes comforting each other and trying to come up with a plan. They finally decided that if Oliver didn’t want to talk to them maybe he would talk to someone else and he should see a therapist. Sherlock didn’t like the idea of trusting a stranger to help his son, but he did not have any other choice. The boy needed help and it was urgent. How Oliver would take the news he was being forced to go see a therapist he didn’t know, but he hoped it would not be too bad.

***

 

Oliver didn’t react badly when his father told him he would have to go see someone that night. He only said: “Oh...Ok then. If you really want to.”  
If lying to a stranger was the price he had to pay so his fathers would stop worrying and not ask him any questions he didn’t see any reason to object.

The woman turned out to be pretty nice and not too pushy so his meeting with her were not too terrible. He didn’t talk at all about what had happened after he had gave her a brief resume of the events of his abduction and the story he had told everyone. She asked him a lot how he was feeling and he was honest up to a certain point. He told her about his constant fear and the panic attack and she gave him some useful tips to help deal with his anxiety.

He told her he felt ashamed for having been so weak. She assumed he was talking about getting abducted and he didn’t correct her. He didn’t tell her about how he felt disgusted with himself or his anger at himself and the man who had scared him mentally for life. He didn’t tell her either that his virginity had been taken by a thirty years old man with a liking for sadism and humiliation. In the end the balance of things he didn’t tell versus what he did tell made the session not as helpful as they probably could have been.

She proposed to prescribe him something to help him sleep, but he flat out refused. It was not that he could not sleep. Of course he had some difficulty sometimes, but it was not the problem. The problem was that he didn’t want to sleep. He was not going to take something that would make him sleep more and incidentally have more nightmares. He told her he didn’t like the idea of a drug putting him to sleep since it was how they had taken him and it was true. In part.

He started eating a bit more in the next weeks and even sleeping more. He was less on edge and the flashback were not as bad so his dads assumed therapy was helping and he was slowly getting better. It was not exactly true. He certainly felt a bit better emotionally, but it was only because he was using his own coping mechanism. A bad one for sure, but still very effective. The first night he had tried cutting with a razor blade he had felt weird. He was not sure why he was doing it anymore, but since he was feeling bad he had figured he had nothing to lose.

At worst it would not work and he would have a couple of scars. But it worked. Oh it worked. So much that he started doing it every night and sometimes more than once. He limited himself to certain places of his body he could easily hide and always tried to not hurt himself too badly. It helped him feel strong again. Helped him stop being afraid. Stop thinking. Stop remembering. The pain when he felt his scars during the days even helped him with his guilt. He told himself he deserved to suffer and he felt a little bit less guilty. He was getting what he deserved.

He was very afraid Sherlock would notice so he avoided him even more than his papa, John. Sherlock quickly noticed that his son was avoiding him and he felt very hurt by that. He did not think like John that Oliver was getting better because of the therapist or getting better at all really. The fact that he avoided him told him that he was trying to hide something. He was sure it was not drugs. He knew the sign well enough having been an addict himself, but there had to be something else. He just could not find what.

It was six weeks after the incident in the bathroom when something else of importance happened. Oliver was in his physical education class and since the weather was nice for once they had gone outside to play basketball. Oliver had never been really good at team sports, but he was not exactly bad either. He was just not a team player.

The fresh cuts on his stomach and thigh made every move he made a bit painful at first, but he got used to it after a while. In the middle of the period for some reason he tumbled over someone foot while running and fell on the hard asphalt scraping his knees pretty hard. There was no more skin visible on one of them and a lot of blood. He sat and examined them gritting his teeth in pain.

Internally, he didn’t mind that much enjoying the rush of endorphin he was getting from it, but it still hurt a lot. He didn’t hear his teacher screaming his name and asking him if he was ok. He was too focused on all the blood and wondering if he would be able to get up on his own. Without any warning someone putted a hand on his shoulder and his entire body jerked away.

It was his teacher checking on him. He didn’t seem to understand his student had moved because of his touch and went to help him get up, making the teenage boy hitting his arm while he almost screamed:  
“Don’t touch me!”  
  
The man confused tried to calm him down: “Relax Oliver. I just want to help you get...” and went again for his shoulder to help him up. That earned him a real scream this time.  
“I SAID DON’T TOUCH ME!”  
The entire class went silence. Everyone was looking at Oliver on the ground who looked like a lion had just tried to eat him. Or at least something very terrifying attack him. He knew he was overreacting, but he could not help himself. He just could not let someone who was almost a stranger and an adult man touch him in any way.

The teacher seemed to understand something else was happening in his student head and stepped back.  
“Ok. Calm down. I won’t touch you. It’s ok. You’re ok.”  
The teenager took a deep breath and he looked a bit less panicked.  
“Can you get up yourself? Ok. Ben will accompany you to the nurse office.”  
He looked at the Ben in question who was another student and the boy nodded.

He almost fell on the ground again getting up, but he got himself in time and started to walk toward the school. He was limping a bit and his knees felt like they were on fire, but other than that he was fine. Ben followed him keeping a two meters distance between them probably afraid he would freak out again. He didn’t tell him that people his age didn’t scare him as much as adults.

The nurse made a little shocked sound when she saw all the blood on him and told him to sit down. He was a bit nervous to let her near the wound since his self harm scars were not that far on his thigh, but he didn’t see how he could ask to take care of it himself without looking suspicious. She cleaned him and disinfected, not putting anything on it. It would heal better left on its own. She was very delicate with him taking his tension for pain when it was in fact anxiety.

She did not touch him a lot, but her being a woman he did not mind that much anyway. When he got back to change after class everyone looked at him even more strangely than usual which annoyed him. He only had one period left after that and he could not wait to be home. He enjoyed the feeling of his knees rubbing on his jeans and hurting until then.

When he came home he found John was there. His dads had been very careful to never leave him alone since he had broken the mirror. There was always Sherlock or John in the flat when he arrived from school. It made him feel a bit like a child and he had told them that it was ok to leave him alone now. They would have to eventually and he had to learn to deal with his anxiety. Still there was always someone there and they kept pretending it was just a coincidence that they never both worked at the same time when he was there.

John however looked different than usual. He was sitting in his chair and looked like he was waiting for him.  
“Papa!” he greeted him.  
“Come here Oliver. I want to talk to you about something.”  
Putting his bag on the floor he went to sit in Sherlock chair. He didn’t understand where this was coming from. He knew that his dad had doubts about his recovery, but his papa seemed to think he was doing better.

“Your PE teacher called.”  
He was going to strangle the man. Could he not mind his own business?  
“He told me about the incident today and he said he was worried about you.”  
“I just scraped my knees Pa. There is nothing to worry about.”  
“He was not worried about your knees. He said you screamed at him when he tried to help you get up. He said you panicked when he touched you.”

That was not good. Not good at all. He didn’t know how he was going to explain that one.  
“He said the only students he had seen acting like that were victim of abuse at home or had been through some intense trauma. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but...”  
“Yes, it’s because of the kidnapping and yes you’re right. I don’t want to talk about it.”  
“Oliver I just want to know what happened to you. I don’t need details. I just want to understand what they did to you to make you be afraid of a teacher you know and scream at him simply for trying to help you. ”

Oliver didn’t say anything. He was thinking. Thinking what half lie he could tell to get out of this without admitting to having been raped.  
“You know he was not going to hurt you, right?”  
“I know that!” he said harshly trying to stop the tears coming in his eyes.  
“Then why? What were you so afraid of?”  
“I was not...” but he could not finish his sentence because he was worried he might start to cry. He had managed to not think about it almost all day and his father had had to remind him how broken he was. How ashamed he felt and how he hated himself for having been so weak.

“Your dad told me your bruises the day we found you did not all occur at the same time. Some were older than others. And the ones on your wrist were not five days old. Please Oliver. I know you didn’t tell us everything. What happened? You can tell me anything you know that. “

“Shut up! Please!”  
He was almost screaming at this stage. The more his father begged the more he felt like crying and breaking down and the more he had to fight not to, the more he got angry. A part of him wanted to just break down and tell him, but he knew that he could not. It would break John heart and he would not be able to deal with his reaction. His guilt.

He also knew that he would try to comfort him and the idea of him touching him knowing what he had gone through... He just could not handle it. He had been weak. He had not been able to stop it from happening. It was his fault. He didn’t deserve to be comforted.  
“Oli please! I just...”  
“SHUT UP!”  
This time he had screamed. Really loudly and stood up while doing it.

His father froze. Oliver’s relationship with his parents had always been really good and never in almost sixteen years had he screamed like that at one of them. Angry tears were sliding out of his eyes. John looked so lost, sad and surprised that he immediately felt bad.

“I’m sorry. I just... I’m sorry ok.”  
And not able to take it any longer he took his bag and ran outside without a word.

He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew that he needed to be away from his father. He walked randomly, completely lost in his own head. It could not go on for very long. His dads would put the pieces together at some point. Or they would keep questioning him until one day he broke and said something. And if they found out about the self harm without knowing about what had happened... He would have to explain to them why he did it. Why he felt so bad he had to put a razor to his skin every night.

He knew he could not keep hurting himself forever. He was already starting to lack places to cut and realistically he would have to be without a t-shirt in front of his fathers at some point. They would see. That was if Sherlock didn’t figure it out sooner by the way he walked or an accidental drop of blood on his bed or something.

He also knew that keeping what had happened all to himself only made it worse. He knew that. He was not stupid. Yet he just could not bring himself to get it out. The words were stuck in his throat. Maybe if he could find someone who would not react too much. Someone who could then tell his parent for him. Strangely enough after approximately two hours walking and thinking he found himself in front of Mycroft home.

He didn’t like the thought of admitting what had happened to anyone, but if he had to choose, his uncle would be the one he preferred. Why? He didn’t know exactly. Maybe because he trusted him more than anyone in the world. Or maybe because he knew that even if the man cared for him very much he would not react emotionally to his confession. Not in front of him anyway. There was also a good chance he would not try to comfort him in any way that would make him uncomfortable.

He stopped thinking and went to ring the doorbell. What was the worst that could happen really? Mycroft was the one to open the door. He didn’t seem surprised to see him.  
“Oliver. Come in.”  
Giving him a polite small smile he stepped in without a word.  
“Come sit with me in the library. I would offer you a drink, but your father would not appreciate you drinking scotch.”  
Indeed, with Harry who was still struggling to not start drinking again, alcohol was not something that either of his dads took lightly.

He had always loved the library. When he came to spend the night as a child it was always where he spent most of his time. He sat or more accurately folded himself in a tight ball on the sofa chair opposite to his uncle. He knew it was not a very polite way to sit, but he also knew that the man would not object. He winced a bit, his knees, thigh and stomach protesting to the position, but he ignored it. A bit of pain would not be unwelcome.

“Your father called me.”  
“I had kind of guessed.”  
The teenage boy was annoyed.  
“He said that you were very emotional when you left. He was worried about you.”  
“They are always worried about me.”  
“Are you suggesting that they don’t have any reason to right now?” he asked raising an eyebrow.

Oliver growled in answer, not able to deny it, but not wanting to acknowledge his uncle was right either.  
“You have been hurting yourself.”  
“What do you mean?” he replied trying to sound innocent and hide the panic in his voice. How could he know already? He had been there for barely two minutes.  
“Exactly what I said. You are self harming. On your thigh and your stomach I believe.”  
Well, there was no point in denying it.  
“How did you know?

“You move differently. You winced when you hugged you knees, suggesting the movement was painful, but you tried to hide it. You would not have if it was simply an accidental injury. You are also a lot paler than usual which suggest that you lost a lot of blood recently.”

“I would ask you to not tell my dads, but I know it’s a lost cause”  
“Sherlock may be blinded because you are his son, but he would have noticed eventually.”

The boy sighed.  
“Yeah, I know.”  
He felt so tired suddenly. Tired of all the lies, the secrets, the self hate, the shame. Tired of suffering alone. He had never felt so lonely in his entire life. He swallowed difficultly.  
“I didn’t tell everything that happened when I was kidnapped.”  
  
He was hit with the memory of the man telling him all those horrible things while he ripped his clothes away the first day.  
“You dads are fags. If you’re anything like them you will love it.”  
He had screamed at him to shut up, but it had only made him laugh.  
“Yeah. You will love being my little bitch.”  

And then after when the man was dressing back and Oliver was crying on the floor he had said something that had hurt him even more.  
“I was wrong you know. You’re nothing like you fathers. You’re weak. It’s pathetic. At least they would have put up a good fight. Not cry like a baby and beg for me to stop.”

“Oliver!”  
Mycroft seeing he was lost in his mind had called him, bringing him back to reality.  
“Sorry.”  
“It’s alright. You are here right now. Not anywhere else. Remember that.”

A tear escaped one of his eyes. Traitor. He took a deep breath, but he was too shaken up by this point for it to really help.  
“When I was there... there was a man who... he hurt me. More than one time.”  
He just could not bring himself to say the word. His uncle looked calm and not surprised by anything he was saying. He looked like his therapist who kept this neutral face no matter what he told her. His tone was surprisingly reassuring when he asked softly:  
“What did he do to you Oliver?”

“I can’t... I can’t say it.”  
His voice was shaking so hard he had to put pressure on his knees and thigh and focus on the pain really hard not to break into a sob. If the man noticed he didn’t say anything about it.  
“You can say it. You will feel better afterward. I promise.”  

His uncle had never lied to him before and he had always been right. About everything. Why would he be wrong now? The fact that even if he was using a soothing voice and his face looked softer than usual he didn’t make any attempt to move or try to comfort him helped him more than he could have said. He felt respected in his boundaries and like he had space to breathe and think.

“He raped me.”  
It was out. He had said it. For the first time he had voiced out loud what had been done to him. It felt like a very heavy weight was lifted off from his shoulder which would have been very nice had he not felt like he was being stabbed in the heart at the same time. A violent sob escaped him and tears started to run freely out of his eyes. God! He had been raped. Multiples times. And there was nothing he could ever do to erase that or forget it. It would always be with him.

Mycroft didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask why he had not told anyone or who exactly had did it to him. He had probably guessed all of this already. He let him cry for a while in silence and when he had stopped crying too heavily he asked gently:  
“What would you like me to do with this information Oliver? Your dads will have to know eventually”

The idea made Oliver’s heart beat faster.  
“I can’t tell them. I can’t see their faces when they learn.... I just can’t.”  
His uncle didn’t say anything and waited for what he seemed to sense he was going to be asked.  
“Could you... tell them? For me? Please!”  
“There is no need to beg me. If it is what you wish I will do it.”  
“Thank you!”  
He didn’t remember feeling more grateful for anything in his entire life.  
“I will call them and tell them you will spend the night here. Is it alright with you?”

He didn’t know how the man did it. He had deduced what he wanted before he was even aware of it. Of course he would like to spend the night there. It would be nice to be away from his room for one night and he would not have to face his parents tonight. He nodded eagerly.  
“Tomorrow I shall go and tell them what you told me. I will also tell them about the self harm. Then you will go back home and discuss with them how they can help you. Is this fine with you?”   
“Yes. Just... could you tell them not to ask questions about the...” He had to say it. He could say it. It was just a word god damn it. “...the rape. I don’t want to talk about it until I’m ready.”  
“Of course. I understand perfectly. Now go in the kitchen and find something you would like to eat. I will go call them.”

Oliver got up, shaking a bit, but feeling a lot better than when he had sat down twenty minutes sooner. Just before he was out of the room he turned toward his uncle and asked:  
“You texted them I was there the minute you saw me arrive, didn’t you?”

Mycroft gave him a face that said “What do you think?” and that made the teenager smile a bit. He went into the kitchen and looked for something. There was a bit too much choice and he decided he would let the man do what he wished. He didn’t really care. Five minutes later when Mycroft arrived in the room he told him just that and his uncle decided he would cook him the lamb he had in his fridge with some vegetables. And he would eat his entire plate.

With the quantity of blood he was probably losing regularly he needed all the protein he could get, he said to him. That made him look away in shame, but he didn’t argue. It was true that he felt weak, but he always assumed that it was because he didn’t sleep a lot. While the food was being prepared he went to watch TV in the living room.  
  
Later, during supper, Mycroft asked him something that almost made him choke on a piece of lamb. He asked him if he had been tested for HIV or any disease lately. In other words, since the rape. He responded by the negative and his uncle told him they would send him to get tested tomorrow. He didn’t really look forward to it, but he didn’t dare to argument with him. He was relatively sure the man had not given him anything. He had not noticed anything strange down there and he doubted a professional kidnapper and hitman would have had HIV. Still John, being a doctor, he would have probably wanted to get him tested too so he was better to do it with his uncle.

After eating he was literally falling asleep in his chair and Mycroft told him to go take a shower and go to bed. He didn’t look like he had slept more than three hours the last night and his blood lost surely didn’t help him to keep his energy. He didn’t protest since he was a hundredth percent right.

In the shower he enjoyed the feeling of the burning hot water on his cuts. It was painful, but appreciated since he would not be able to hurt himself that night. Thankfully Oliver had some old pyjama in the guest room of his uncle so after his shower he didn’t have to borrow anything from Mycroft. He slept here a couple of times a years and after a while he had ended up just leaving clothes and stuff at his house.

Even as tired as he was he felt reluctant going to bed. Sleeping meant having nightmares and feeling horrible. It meant waking up in panic and crying. He installed himself comfortably under the cover, but the second he closed his eyes he felt his body go rigid. He was so used to fight off sleep that it had become a reflex at this point. His heart was beating fast and his fear not ready to let go of him.

 

 

It was then that his uncle came into the room.  
“I assume you found everything you needed.”  
“Yes.”  
“Try to have a good night then.”  
He was going to leave when his nephew called him.  
“Mycroft!”  
“Yes?”  
“I know it will sound childish, but... would you stay? Just until I fall asleep. I just think that if you talked to me it would help me relax a little. Distract me. I have difficulty sleeping and...”

“No need to explain yourself. I will stay.”  
“Thank you!”  
The man was hit by how much like a child Oliver still looked at this instant. Only his head showing from under the cover where he was placed in a fetal position. His big eyes full of fear, hope and gratitude all at the same time. He went to bring the chair of the room closer to the bed and sat.

“Should I tell you about the time Sherlock decided to test from how high he could jump before breaking a bone when he was 8?”  
That made the teenage boy smile so he continued and told him stories of all the strange and idiots things his dad had done when he was young. Fixing him in silence his nephew listened with attention, his body slowly relaxing and his position changing into a more natural one.

Half an hour later he was asleep, but Mycroft didn’t feel like leaving yet. He stayed there, looking at him sleeping, wishing he could protect him from the nightmares that would surely plague his sleep. His heart had broken for Oliver when he had realized what had happened to him. He had suspected something was not right the first time he had seen him after the events, but he had not found out what it was exactly back then. Then he had heard of the incident with the mirror and read the note of this therapist and it had clicked. Why would he not tell his parents and the therapist unless he was ashamed of what had happened? And what would make a fifteen years old boy feel so ashamed he felt like he could not tell anyone and chose to let it destroy him instead?

Of course he could not be 100% sure so he had not said anything. He didn’t want to be the one to suggest to his brother that his son had been raped if it had not really happened. He didn’t know exactly why Oliver had chosen to confide in him. He was not the most comforting person or the best with emotions. Possibly because of that exactly even if it didn’t really make sense. His nephew had enough of his own emotions. He didn’t need someone else having a break down when he told them what had happened to him.

Mycroft also sensed that even if he was ready to accept some help he didn’t want to be flat out comforted. He didn’t want to be hugged and told that it had not been his fault and all the things one would say in such a situation. Was it because he felt he didn’t deserve it? If it was the case it truly made him want to cry.

After some time he left and went to his room to change for the night, but he could not go to bed. He went back to the guest room instead and sat on the chair, making himself as comfortable as could be. He just could not leave him alone. Around midnight when Oliver woke up in a violent jerk he was glad he had stayed. His nephew was in tears and clearly fighting not to panic. He didn’t make any movement toward him having guessed he would not like to be touched.

“It’s all right Oliver. You are in my house. With me. You are safe.”  
Hearing him the teenager let himself fall back on the mattress, taking deep breaths. He calmed down a lot faster than he would have on his own as his uncle repeated “You are safe. I am here with you.”.  Ten minutes later he was back asleep.

In the end Mycroft didn’t sleep at all and spent his night wondering how he would tell his little brother and John that their child had been raped.

*** 

 

John had barely slept that night and Sherlock had not even tried. The moment Oliver had left John had texted Mycroft to ask that he find him because he was horribly worried. Who knew what he would do in such a state? Finally, it had turned out Oliver had only been walking around. At least that was what Mycroft had told him he had seen on the CCTV. Sherlock was home walking in circle by the time Mycroft texted him that Oliver was at his place and not to come. It had taken a lot of will not to run there and to stop Sherlock from going himself, but he had resisted. He trusted Mycroft and if Oliver wanted to talk to his uncle instead of them it was fine with him. As long as he talked to someone.

When Mycroft had called John to tell them Oliver would spend the night at his place and he would come to see them in the morning Sherlock had thrown something against the wall in frustration. His husband was not a patient man and the night must have been very long for him indeed. At last it was morning and Mycroft had come. Without Oliver. When John asked about him Mycroft reassured them that he was at the clinic with Anthea.

That didn’t reassure Sherlock at all.  
“The clinic? Why? What happened? I thought you said he was fine.”  
“Nothing happened last night. He is only there for some test.”  
Sherlock looked at his brother suspiciously.  
“Test for what?”  
“I am coming to that brother, but I think it would be best if we could all sit first.”  
John did not think it was possible at this point, but he felt he even more nervous than before. For once Sherlock didn’t discuss and went to sit on the sofa by John. Mycroft moved a chair in front of them and took the seat like he was eighty years old. He looked older than the last time he had seen him.

“Last night, Oliver told me about what happened to him when he was kidnapped. And he asked me to be the one to tell you about it.”  
John felt Sherlock body go rigid beside him. He did not look at him, but if he had he was sure he would have seen comprehension starting to draw itself on his face.  
“He was raped by one of his kidnappers. Multiple times.”  
For the first time in years John could not hold himself. Tears came out of his eyes. Sherlock beside him looked like he was in agony.  They both looked at each other and Sherlock held on to John, as much to comfort him as to comfort himself.   
 “That man is dead if you are wondering and I am sure Oliver knows this.” Mycroft said, trying to help in his own way. It did, but not much.

When he was sure he would not cry again and felt a little more solid thanks to Sherlock’s arms John asked:  
“Why didn’t he told us? Or anyone.Why you?”  
He didn’t feel jealous that his son had chosen Mycroft to confide in. He just didn’t understand why.  
“If I had to guess I would say he was afraid of your reaction. He did not want to have any... intense emotional reactions.”  
He could not deny that he would not have been able to control his reaction had his son told him.  
“He probably also felt ashamed, like most victims.”  
“Anyone could have guessed _that_.” Sherlock replied, biting.  
Mycroft only nodded. He did not expect his brother to be nice after learning such news. 

“So the clinic...” said John finally making the connection. “You’re getting him tested?”  
“Yes. The chances of him having contracted anything serious are very thin and he says he has not had any symptoms, but I wanted to be sure.”  
John nodded and held Sherlock hand so strongly he was surely hurting him, but his husband didn’t protest.

“There is something else.”  
“What?” the doctor, asked terrified.  
“He has been hurting himself. Self harming if you want to be more precise. A common behavior in teens who have been victim of sexual abuse, I believe. Nonetheless, you should keep an eye for that and make sure he doesn’t have any tools left in his room.”  
John felt his stomach turn. He had to admit it was not that surprising after what Mycroft had told him and his behavior in the last months, but still. He really didn’t like the idea of his son hurting himself. Sherlock whispered something sounding like:  
“I knew I was missing something.”  
“He said he will talk about all of it to his therapist, but he doesn’t want to talk about the abuse with you yet.”

“Of course. Only when he is ready.” John said still feeling close to tears.

Oliver came home two hours later and by then they both had time to calm down and plan what they were going to do. Sherlock had been very silent and mostly nodded to everything John said. When the boy arrived he looked on his guard. John didn’t try to hug or touch him. He could feel it would not be welcomed. He invited him to sit in the kitchen with him and Sherlock and asked him if they could talk. He immediately tensed.  
“I thought Mycroft told you I didn’t want to talk about it.”  
“We don’t want to talk about...what happened. We want to talk about the self harming.”  
Oliver shoulders relaxed a bit.  
“Oh” was his only answer. John took that for a yes.  
“Can I ask how you hurt yourself?”  
“Razor blade.”  
“Where?” asked Sherlock finally entering the conversation.  
“My stomach and thigh.”  
“Have any of your cuts got infected?” he asked, the doctor in him showing up.  
“I’m not stupid. I know how to take care of injuries.” He said defensive.  
“Could you still show me? To reassure me.”

His son looked pensive for a minute.  
“Only if you are comfortable with it of course.” John added realizing his mistake.  
Shrugging the teenager whispered:  
“All right if you insist.”  
John directed him in the living room and Sherlock followed silently and sat on his chair, anxiously.  
Oliver opened his trouser, downed them to his knees and raised his shirt to show his stomach. He didn’t seem too uncomfortable so John dared to examine him closely. None of them were infected indeed.  
“There are two that would have needed stitches.” He said looking at his son destroyed body. They were hundred of them. Some a month old, some two days only. Some very small, some alarmingly big.  
“Yeah, I know, but I put some bandage on it and it was fine.”  
“Do you still have the blade?” he asked.  
They had agreed after Mycroft visit not to search Oliver’s room. They wanted him to feel like they trusted him and that would have sent a very different message.  
“Yes”  
“Will you do it again? “ It was Sherlock who asked this time.  
His voice was different than usual. Like he was trying very hard to contain his emotions.  
“I don’t plan to keep doing it if that’s what you’re asking, but I don’t know what I will do when I’m on my own and feeling bad again. It could just happen again even if I don’t want to now. I don’t want to make a promise I won’t be able to keep.”

It didn’t reassure him very much, but at least his son was being honest and he did want to stop. He just needed some help. He told him to get dressed again and once he was sitting on the sofa dressed he asked him:  
“Why do you do it?”  
He knew of all the usual reasons, but he wanted to understand why _Oliver_ did this.  
“I... it’s hard to explain.” He looked like he was fighting to stay detached, but failing miserably.  
“Take your time.”  
“When I hurt myself it’s like... the only thing I’m focusing on is the pain. I stop thinking. I stop remembering. My brain is clear for a little while. I stop feeling scared or sad or guil... I don’t feel bad anymore.”  
Why had his son not wanted to admit he felt guilty? Why did he even feel guilty in the first place? Surely he knew none of it was his fault.  
“Oliver... you know that none of what happened is your fault right? You don’t have any reason to feel guilty. It was not your fault!”

The teenager closed his eyes too tightly like he was trying to forget he was there or fight some thought making their way to his brain.  
“Please don’t talk about it. I know you only want to help, but just... don’t. You don’t know what happened. If you knew... I was weak. I... Don’t talk about it anymore please. I can’t...”  
He had tears coming out of his still closed eyes while talking. John was desperate to tell him again how it was not his fault. Tell him he didn’t care how it had happened. He had not been weak. Based on the bruises on his body and the way he was walking when they had got him back he could guess the man had not been gentle at all if not very violent. The mark on his wrists also showed he had been tied up. There was nothing he could have done. John felt his like someone was tearing him inside just from thinking about it. He could not imagine how his son must be feeling. It was why he didn’t insist.

First because he knew Oliver would probably not believe him no matter what he said to him and second because he could feel that his boy was very close to breaking down in front of him and fighting it every steps of the way.

“It’s ok. I won’t talk about it. Take a deep breath. Good. Everything is fine. I’m here. Sherlock is here. You’re safe. You’re ok.”  
Oliver took a big trembling breath and nodded. He opened his eyes to look at him and he looked so scared, so vulnerable that John had to physically stop himself from taking him in his arms.  
“Is it ok for me to hug you?” he asked, not sure that his son would welcome the physical contact. Oliver looked hesitant at first, but then nodded again so John sat beside him and held him against him, trying to make him feel how safe and loved he was. Sherlock joined them on the sofa, but only placed a hand on Oliver shoulder, squeezing it. The skinny teenager went limp in his father’s embrace and hid his face in John’s neck.  
For the first time since the kidnapping he did not feel so alone anymore. 

The next days John and Sherlock were both unsure of how to act exactly. They didn’t want to treat their son differently or like he was made of glass, but they could not help worrying about him. They had made him promise he would come to them if he ever felt like hurting himself again or just very bad, but John knew that they was a big chance if it was in the middle of the night or they were working he would not, not wanting to disturb them.

He gave them his razors blade, mentioning however that it didn’t mean anything since he could acquire new one anytime he wanted. John read between the lines “Don’t expect too much please. I don’t want to disappoint you.” Oliver stopped trying to avoid them and he realized just how much his son had had been spending time on his own in the last months. He did all his homework in the kitchen, read in the living room, watched TV with John and even helped Sherlock with his experiment again. He still looked like a mess, but a less scared one. There was a constant sadness in his eyes that never failed to break John’s heart. Sometimes he would look at nothing in particular and get very tense and his father could see the mental pain he was in. He could almost feel it.

If he never looked quite happy yet he still didn’t look as afraid or sad as he had been in the past. He still had difficulty sleeping, but at least he talked to them about it now. Three days after they had learned the truth they found Oliver asleep on the sofa in the morning. When they asked him about it he told them he had not wanted to be in his room anymore and had accidentally fell asleep there.  It was the longest he had slept in a month. That night Sherlock told him not to bother trying to sleep in his room and just lie on the sofa while he played for him. Oliver protested that he was not a child and he didn’t need his dad playing him violin to fall asleep anymore, but he still did as Sherlock asked and fell asleep to the music in less than twenty minutes. Sherlock had played all the old songs he used to play to his son when he was younger hoping to make him feel as safe and happy as he had been back then.

A week later Oliver slept on the sofa almost every night and Sherlock played for him every time he did. The teenager was finally getting at least six hours of sleep each night which was a very big amelioration. Another thing that was already getting better was that he finally dared to ask for help. It happened for the first time when he was at school having a very big panic attack. He called John at work saying:  
“Papa. I’m...I’m scared. I... There was a man who looked like... I know he is dead, but I... what if... I don’t want him to hurt me again please.”  
John could hear that he was having difficulty breathing and was crying. His “please” sounded a lot more like a sob than an actual word and John had never wanted to run and get his son so much. However, he knew that the school was thirty five minutes away and his attack would probably be over by then.

He told him to breathe like his therapist had taught him to do when having panic attacks and tried to reassure him. He was not going to get hurt again. The man was dead and buried. He was safe. If he was too worried he could go in a public space with many people or John and Sherlock could come and get him.  He just had to ask. After ten minutes on the phone with him Oliver finally calmed down and assured him he was ok and didn’t need him to come. However, he asked if he could go spend the afternoon with Mrs Hudson because he really didn’t feel like staying at school. John agreed since his son almost never missed school. He had the right to take a break.

He called Mrs Hudson to tell her Oliver was going to come spend the afternoon with her and to keep a close eye on him. The old woman didn’t know exactly what had happened to their boy, but she knew that something very bad had happened to him during his kidnapping and it was enough for her. When he came back from work John found them both in Mrs Hudson living room eating homemade cookies and watching rerun of variety shows.  

Three weeks after learning what had happened John noticed Oliver looking at the knifes in the kitchen and his razor in the toilet a bit more than was normal. When he told Sherlock about it his husband explained to him that self harm had become a sort of addiction for Oliver and he was in what could be compared to withdrawal. It was only getting more obvious because it had been longer and resisting was getting harder. John asked him how he knew that and Sherlock told him he had had a long discussion with Oliver about how and why cutting made him feel better. In the end he had come to the conclusion that it was not so different from his drug addiction and a lot of the same principles and idea could be applied to both.

What John got from this was that his husband understood their son more than he ever could and he knew how to help him. That reassured him. Sherlock also seemed to sense when Oliver felt like hurting himself which made distracting or helping him not to give in a lot easier. The best example of that happened two days later.  

Oliver had been on edge all night and at ten when he said he was going to bed, in his room, Sherlock stopped him.  
“No, I need help with my experiment and you are obviously not really tired.”  
The teenager sighed and looked annoyed, but he did not protest. When John went to bed at eleven he still didn’t seem very enthusiast, but he kept on helping his dad nonetheless. At one in the morning John was awaken by the sound of an explosion in the kitchen and his son voice.  
“Shit! Papa is gonna kill us.”  
And then Sherlock and Oliver laughed. Laughed. Oliver was laughing. It took John a couple of seconds to realize what was happening. He had not heard his boy laugh since before the kidnapping. The best he had seen him do was smile and puff sadly one time. And now he was laughing. He almost felt like crying from joy. He was ready to be waked up every night if it meant his son was laughing in the kitchen with Sherlock instead of hurting alone in his room.

He was not stupid. He had noticed Oliver’s mood during the day. Very much like Sherlock when he craved a cigarette or a case. His husband had been right to compare his self harm to an addiction. When he had said he was going to bed John heart had stopped, but thankfully his lover had saved the day. Just like John, Sherlock had deduced that the time their son was the most susceptible to harm himself again was when he felt bad in his room at night so he had just eliminated that time making sure that when he did go to bed he was so tired he would fall asleep immediately.

John didn’t know if it would work, but hearing the two people he loved the most in the world laugh about destroying his kitchen again made him feel better nonetheless. No matter what happened when their son was left alone in his room he had at least laughed again.  He fell asleep again to the sound of his two boys whispering and giggling and he thought that it was the most beautiful thing he had heard in forever.

He was waked up again that night by Sherlock getting into bed and more precisely in his arms.  
“Has he gone to bed?” he asked in a sleepy voice to the man settling himself against his chest.  
“Yes, he fell asleep as soon as he was on the bed. I verified. Sorry if we woke you earlier.”  
“It’s fine.” He murmured and kissed Sherlock hair, holding the tall man in his arms.  
“And we might have broken the microwave. Again.”

“I don’t mind.”  
“Really?”  
“He laughed and sounded happy. It was the first time since what happened. That’s worth more than any microwave.”  
“I know. It was the first time I heard him laugh too.”  
They both held each other tightly, their body saying what words could not. Tonight he had laughed. In a month maybe he would start to smile more and in six months perhaps he would be happy again. Until then they would take what they could. Their son had gone on another day without hurting himself, had had fun with his dad and was now safely sleeping in his room. It may not have seemed like a lot for them in the past, but in the present situation it was enough to make them blissfully happy.


End file.
